After 40 years as a cat person, I've abandoned them for dogs

Telegraph

27-05-2025

When we got our first dog in 2015, there was much talk within the media about the scourge of loneliness and social isolation. The more time we spent on our phones in this modern world, the less we knew how to interact in real life. And we were suffering accordingly.
But thanks to Missy, a border terrier I sourced, as it happened, on my phone, I found that people are still only too eager to talk to strangers; they just need an excuse to do so. And nothing quite facilitates easy conversation better than walking your dog in a park.
I was in my mid-40s when we got her, and she was, at least initially, an unknowable thing to me: over-friendly, over-eager, tauntingly tireless. I'd previously been a cat person, drawn to their aloof independence, and the fact that they could treat you the way Zsa Zsa Gabor occasionally did her husbands. I liked that, for some reason. The dog, in comparison, was a love bomb, always exploding in your face.
She arrived at a stage in my life – specifically, midlife – when I was beginning, with palpable relief, to extricate myself from certain friendships, while lamenting those that just seemed to unravel of their own accord. But the dog then led me, without fanfare, into an entirely new social circle, comprised of people I'd never have encountered, much less befriended, without her.
Over the next 10 years, she would open up the world in all sorts of ways, a beguiling companion at home, and a perpetual liability outdoors. She'd require me first to interact with strangers, then apologise to them as and when needed, which was often. Like the time she knocked a little girl flying while in pursuit of a pigeon, her mother distinctly unimpressed, or the homeless man whose Greggs' sausage roll she daringly swiped. I'd routinely watch her waltz off with total strangers simply because they had better treats than me, and occasionally stood helpless as she darted out into oncoming traffic because it seemed a good idea at the time.
Life with her has been complicated, certainly, but rarely dull.
Find your tribe
In the small neighbourhood park I'd previously blithely ignored, I found endless drama and incident, and fell in with people who were young and old, and from every conceivable background, each eager to connect.
It was here where a graffiti artist, with a limping pug, offered me an unsolicited TED talk on the benefits of investing in bitcoin one morning, while on another I walked with a stoned martial arts enthusiast – barefoot alongside his majestic Akita – to help him look for his shoes, 'which I seem to have misplaced'. I watched arguments erupt and quickly settle, new love blossom, and offered solace to those for whom it had ended.
People with dogs seem to talk more openly than those without. While our pets mooched about us, they shared their anxieties, the trials of menopause, their myriad gripes and grouches. It felt lovely to be taken into quite so many confidences, and we became a community. True, I don't think any of us ever met outside the park, and we didn't always learn each other's name quite as quickly as we did the dogs', but within here we had each other's backs.
When, for example, the man with Alzheimer's continued to turn up long after his own border terrier had died, and advancements in his condition became increasingly evident, one of us always silently volunteered to walk him home again afterwards. And when we encountered an emotional woman crying into her poodle's fur, the group offered her refuge from her abusive relationship, then helped her to break free from it completely.
If ever I lost faith in humanity, I need only come back here to see it restored.
Train your dog to obey
I would come quickly to learn that getting a dog is much like having a baby. Everyone has an opinion on how you are raising it, and are quick to tell you where you're going wrong. 'Get a firmer grip,' they said. 'Teach her to obey you.'
'Ha,' I replied. 'Good one.'
One July, we went to the river to cool off, only to watch – horrified – as Missy was swept away in the water's current in pursuit of a tennis ball that hadn't been thrown for her. The further she drifted, the louder we cried. A crowd gathered. 'You want to control her,' someone chided. 'That's my dog's ball,' said another.
We called out to her, but she suffers from selective hearing. Her focus was entirely on the ball. The more she tried to bite it, the further away it bobbed. You'd think she'd give up, but no. Terriers. A large cruise boat loomed into view. This was getting serious. My wife spotted a kayaker, and pleaded for his help. Cheers rose from the crowd. We'd become the afternoon's entertainment, folk abandoning their barbecues to watch. The kayaker paddled fast, grabbed her, then clamped her tight between his thighs. In this way, a life was saved.
The reunion was tearful, the kayaker awkward amid the gratitude. And then the cheers turned to jeers. Missy had waded back into the water. The tennis ball was still out there, unclaimed.
'That's my ball,' the lady next to me said again.
Be in the moment
It's an unavoidably sad fact that our animals age much faster than we do. When Missy was a puppy, I was still clinging hard to youthful energy levels, but both of us have been through much in the intervening years – existential crises (me), clogged anal glands (her) – and it shows on both of us. We've each got grey in our muzzles, both increasingly set in our ways. And our daily walks have become a battle of wills.
We don't meet with the same crew any more – some have moved on, a few have died – and Missy doesn't like the newer arrivals. There've been incidents, fights. And so now we head elsewhere. But while I turn right, she veers left. Often, in the middle of the road, she will simply stop, impervious both to the encroaching traffic and to my pulling on the lead, happy to allow her neck to extend like a giraffe's in order to exert her will. I try to stare her out, but she doesn't blink.
She leads me instead to a nearby cemetery, where it's quieter. Here amongst the gravestones, I contemplate my mortality while she sniffs every blade of grass at least twice, then lies down. Time slows. At first, this tested my patience greatly – I've things to do, deadlines to meet – but now I've given into it, embraced the mindfulness of it all. Away from my desk for a blessed hour, I take in the trees and the birds, and I feel almost, almost, at peace.
Of course, the moment we get home, all is forgiven between us. Her eyes brighten, her tail wags, and she smiles up at me (I swear she smiles). Truly, I'd be lost without her. She's my constant companion, my significant other.